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Our gazes connect for a single, weighted beat just before the cart disappears behind the trees, ripping him from my sights.
Only then do I let the weight of what I’ve done crash over me. If I wasn’t already seated, I have no doubt it’d take me to my knees.
What the fuck did I just do?
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
NOLAN
By the time I finish up rehashing our little adventure with the staff—the PG version—and get back to my bungalow, it’s nearing lunch time. Having not eaten since yesterday morning, my stomach growls and twinges with hunger pains.
Shrugging off my bag, I toss my useless phone on the two-seater table, and head for my little kitchenette to scrounge up something to eat.
There’s a mini fridge stocked with waters and creamer for coffee, a microwave, a Keurig, and a basket full of snacks and coffee pods. All the basics you’d find in a typical hotel suite, minus the mini bar.
At Black Diamond—well, the rehab at least—we have the option to either get our meals delivered to us, or we can go to the restaurant, dining hall thing they’ve got going on in the main building, where there’s a buffet as well as dine-in.
Typically, I get my meals to go from the dining hall and bring them back here to eat. It seems like that’s what a lot of people prefer to do here, unless you’re of the rich and famous variety who stick to their private quarters.
While I know I can get my food catered and delivered—I’m here on Mel’s dime after all—I’d much rather not stoop to that level. It feels icky. Always has, taking and using someone else’s money like that.
Peeling open an oatmeal, I run the faucet, filling the cup to the line, stir, then pop it in the microwave. Once that’s going, I turn around, and rest my ass against the counter. Running my hand through my hair, I wince at the gritty texture.
“Fuck,” I mutter, sliding my hands down my face. It turns into a long drawn-out moan as I tip my head back, blinking hard at the ceiling.
I grip the edges of the counter and blow out a harsh breath, dropping my head to hang between my shoulders. Now that I’m alone, everything that happened in the last twenty-four hours seems to surge forward all at once—a maelstrom of memories assaulting me from every which way.
Pressed up against Skyler behind a tree as we listened to those guys fucking.
Seeing his panic when he got hard against me.
Feeling my own dick respond.
Chasing after him.
The rain. The storm. The bridge…
My pulse speeds up as the memory of him plummeting into the ocean flashes across my mind’s eye. It’s all a blur now—climbing down the cliffside. Diving in after him. Dragging him to shore. Giving him CPR…
My fingers find my lips of their own volition.
And then it’s no longer the harrowing rescue I’m remembering.
I squeeze my eyes shut. But it does me little good, when all I see behind my lids is him. Naked and writhing, spread out before me…
Ding!
Shaking my head, I mutter under my breath, “Get a grip,” and turn to grab my oatmeal. It’s plain, so I rip open a couple sugar packets and stir them in.
Grabbing one of the rolled cutlery sets, I bring it over to the table, kick out a chair, plop down, and stab my spoon into the pasty texture.
I sit facing the sliding glass doors to the patio. Outside, the sun is out, bright as ever. Not a cloud to be seen today. But that’s also how it was yesterday morning, so who knows what the weather has in store for us later.
I barely taste the oatmeal as I shove spoonful after spoonful into my mouth, but it sinks down in my gut like lead. I get through half before I give up, tossing what’s left in the trash. I throw my spoon in the sink, not bothering to rinse it. The cleaning crew comes here only once a week—something I insisted on when I arrived. I don’t need that pampered, spoiled shit.
Bypassing the bed, I head straight for the bathroom and crank the shower on. I unbutton my still-damp, dirt-caked jeans and go to shove them down along with my briefs, when I catch my reflection in the mirror. I pause.
On the surface, I look exactly the same, if not a little worse for wear. My beard is slightly thicker. My cheeks more tanned than they were yesterday. My hair is a greasy, tangled mess hanging around my face, ends split where they dance over my hunched shoulders.
